In Memory Of
by ChippedTeacup
Summary: It's 67 years after WWII, but Castiel still visits his fallen soldier. Memorial Day fic.


_So this is what happens when you watch _Grave of the Fireflies_ 27 hours before Memorial Day. An angsty, war-themed Destiel fic. Figures. ^^; And also—I did not do a ton of research for this fic, and I kind of overlooked the US draft that went out during this time. So bare with me here. Enjoy~_

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Castiel hobbled over to St. Mary's Graveyard, clutching his silver cane in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. It was a beautiful May day—there wasn't a cloud in the sky, a gentle breeze rustled the tree branches, and several families were outside laughing and setting up their barbeques for later. Just like every other Memorial Day, it seemed.

The graveyard was empty. The local Boy Scout troop had planted small American flags in the graves of any fallen soldiers, so the normally lush area was now a field of patriotism. He paused to smile sadly at the display. Even though the gesture was plenty thoughtful, the boys probably had no idea of the significance.

With the expertise of a man who had walked amongst the graves several time before, he slowly made his way over to a quiet area in the back. A large oak tree, gnarled with ivy and age, overshadowed his special tombstone. The one that held his lover.

Dean Winchester.

Carefully, Castiel knelt down at the foot of the tombstone, his prosthetic leg jerking awkwardly in the process. He rested the cane beside him and dusted off the top of the tomb with slight fondness.

Dean Winchester. 1923-1942. He had signed up for the war with a smile on his face. He remembered Dean telling him, 'Don't worry, babe, I'll be back soon. Those Japs won't know what hit 'em!'. He had looked so proud getting on that train with all the other recruits.

Castiel even believed that he'd be fine—that he'd be back in a few months as a brave war hero. Just before the train doors closed, he had slipped a hanky into Dean's front pocket and whispered in his ear, 'Keep this for luck and always think of me. I'll see you soon, love!'

Dean had grinned and as the train slowly chugged out of the station, he stuck his head out the window, waving Castiel's handkerchief out, and shouted, 'See ya after the war, Cas!'

He hadn't even been able to kiss him goodbye.

In fact, that was the last time he had ever seen Dean. And those were his last words.

All of '42 had been a nightmare for Castiel. Not once did he receive a letter and not once did the government have any word on Dean and his fellow troops. The same message kept getting relayed: we'll let you know if we hear anything, but don't keep your hopes up.

Meanwhile, air raids were a constant threat. It seemed like every night the alarm went off and he had to duck for cover. Fire scorched the earth and whole cities had been decimated. Black rain poured from the sky and the air always tasted of gunpowder.

It was November of '43 when a bombing took his leg. He had been eating dinner when the alarm went off, and before he could even think, the room went white. The blast was enormous, and the whole house collapsed just from the seismic impact. Beams from the roof and a wall of plaster slammed on top of him and crushed his leg. Ash and soot blackened his lungs and burned his eyes. Flames erupted from nearby buildings and the whole sky turned black. The air was opaque with smoke.

Somehow, Castiel had managed to crawl out from the wreckage. He had first and second degree burns all over his legs and chest, and his left leg was mangled and blackened. His eyes couldn't stop watering and every breath seemed to slice his throat. He choked on air and rasped for help, but no one would stop to help him. They all had their own lives to save.

He could still remember the stench of burned flesh emitting from his leg as he was finally rushed into the operating room, could still remember the scorching pain engulfing his whole body as the doctors drenched him in water and rubbing alcohol and yelled to 'Stay still!'. He had stayed in the hospital for a scant two days before he was forced to leave in order to make room for the new bodies.

The rest of the war had been a painful blur of anger, crushing sadness, and cruel hope. He never heard a word from Dean. When the Axis had finally surrendered in '45, he had not danced in the streets with all the neighbors. He did not celebrate a new, safe life. He could only think about his love. His love that hadn't made it back. His love that had sacrificed himself for strangers—to make Castiel safe.

He still hoped. He still limped to the mailbox every day for months, waiting for some sign. Even confirmation that he was dead would be better than nothing.

January 21st, 1946. That confirmation came. Castiel had seen the return address and had ripped the envelope to shreds. His heart was pounding madly and he couldn't even think straight. Dean Dean Dean!

'_Dear Castiel Novak,_

_We are sorry to inform you that Dean Winchester passed away on March 15__th__, 42' from a surprise air raid. The details enclosed entail…'_

His heart stopped.

Tears streamed down his face and dripped onto the neat print. His whole face scrunched up in horrible agony as wails and cries wracked his body. He fell to the ground, clutching the letter to his chest and screamed in anguish.

'_DEAN!..Why did you leave me? Why did you have to die!...DEEAAN!'_

There hadn't been a body to bury. There was no way they could find out where exactly he died and even if they could, his body would be just a few handfuls of ash. But Dean deserved some sort of peace. And so did Castiel.

He placed the bouquet of roses down in front of the tombstone. Dean wasn't lying six feet under in a beautiful, ornate coffin. He was somewhere in Nagasaki, perhaps, as just pieces of stray dust.

Tears slid down Castiel's cheeks. He patted the earth beneath him and choked out with a sob, "I miss you, Dean. And I'll never stop loving you."

He kissed the tomb and shakily got up. With a final glance, he hobbled out of the graveyard, the tears still trailing down his cheeks.

The sky was not black with smoke, but was a pristine blue. The shrieks of children were not from pain, but from simple play. And the stench of burned meat was not from his leg or from the flesh of strangers, but from a family's barbeque.

He walked down the street and pulled out a crimson handkerchief from his pocket to dab his eyes.

The war was long over, but the memories were still alive.

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_Happy Memorial Day to all in the United States. _


End file.
